The Hill
by pagupagu
Summary: Hermione Granger owns the resurrection stone. She attempts to find redemption through it for herself and for one other person - Lord Voldemort. Only when he appears to her, he appears as Tom Riddle. She is captivated and disgusted by him, but keeps summoning him to her regardless. (Oneshot)


A/N: This came to me when listening to a song called The Hill from the musical Once. I've been reading a lot of Tom/Hermione recently and this just appeared as I was listening to it so feel free to youtube the song while you read. It jumps back and forward in time. It's not chronological. Not for any particular reason. Enjoy!

* * *

**December 30th 1999, 11pm**

The breeze was cold. Hermione stood at the top of the hill-side gazing out over the land below her. The wind bit into her skin but she did not falter, nor did she wrap her coat around her tighter. Her thoughts were unwavering. Her reason for being here week after week was always the same. Ron lay in their bed at home not realising his fiancé was preparing to meet another man.

Hermione looked over the pebble in her hand. There was a lake directly below her. She could just throw it in. It would be lost then. No one would be able to find it, use it, or be tempted by the idea of seeing the people they loved and had lost. The war had been terrible. Despite being twenty, Hermione felt like she was in her thirties. War did that, she supposed, aged you. She thought back to a time when she could be careless, free, rebellious. Before Hogwarts.

It wasn't that Hermione wasn't grateful, she was. Hogwarts had given her so much. It had allowed her to make friends, bonds that would never be severed. It had given her power and then shown her how to master it. She was a strong witch. A powerful witch. The brightest witch of her age. She had an Order of Merlin. The papers hailed her as a war hero. Even her parents knew she'd done something incredible for the Wizarding world. Younger children gazed at her with wide eyes, glazed over in adoration. She was a role model to so many.

Hermione hated it. She hated that everyone was looking up to her as if she was some sort of inspiration. All those people she had killed, terrible people, but they were dead because of her. Hermione had always insisted that people could change. Everyone had a good side and a bad side. When the war began Hermione tried not to kill. Her tactic was to capture and to reform.

Hermione was still paying her debts to all the people she had murdered. Starting with the worst.

Starting with Tom Riddle.

* * *

**January 3rd 2000, 11pm**

Hermione knelt on the ground, clutching the resurrection stone between her fingers. She'd found it in the forbidden forest whilst clearing up after the war and slipped it into her pocket, her mind reeling with the thought of seeing her family and friends again. That was her reasoning for keeping it originally - to say her final goodbyes.

However here she was, on top of a hill far away from Ron and Harry and Ginny, ready to call Lord Voldemort back from the dead again. She considered telling them, but knew they wouldn't understand. Harry and Ginny would see it as a betrayal. For years Tom Riddle had tormented them both. Hermione knew Ginny still had dreams about the diary, about the charming Slytherin with dark brown hair, parted in a gentle wave and eyes so dark it was hard to make out what colour they were. Ron simply wouldn't understand. Ron always looked at Hermione with wariness in his eyes now as if she were to suddenly combust. She knew it was because they never really spoke anymore. Harry asked her why they were even getting married. She had said it was what Ron wanted. It was what everyone expected.

She knew it was a mistake. She knew she didn't love him. It had been a silly crush and that crush was magnified by the pressures of war. Now that it was over she found she couldn't relate to Ron at all. He would ask her why she was being so weak, so limp. She knew he was only trying to motivate her. Everyone questioned where Hermione's strength had gone. They would swarm her during family meals, asking her if she was okay.

"_Gone_." She had said.

Everyone avoided her now, more or less. Ron still wanted to marry her though. Her family still loved her, so they said. They wouldn't let her go, but they couldn't connect to her. They didn't see that she was struggling through the soil. They didn't notice as it turned into quicksand underneath her and pulled her below. She felt like Persephone. It was time for her to retreat to the dark. Six months in Hell sounded like bliss compared to the emptiness that crossed the Earth.

She took the stone and turned it three times and waited.

And waited.

Waited.

And then she spoke, "Tom Riddle..." She hesitated, "Junior."

And he appeared as he always did, looking exactly like Ginny had described him. Tom Riddle was physically perfect. His dark hair was not swept back like most pureblood boys but parted at the side, some wisps escaping their mould and falling across his forehead. His eyes locked to hers and for a moment they both stared, assessing each other. Sizing up their opponent.

But then he wasn't like most pureblood boys, given the fact he wasn't pureblood at all.

"Hermione Granger, again." He spoke, sending a large grin her way.

She stilled for a moment - why was he smiling at her? "No reason to smile, Tom, it's still the same girl who helped kill you."

"Ah, yes." His smile didn't falter, "Why have you called me back from my eternal slumber again?"

"I, well..." Hermione trailed off, twirling her engagement ring round her finger, "I wanted to see if you still felt the same way about my kind."

Tom Riddle raised a singular eyebrow and his eyes trailed over her, stopping briefly at the ring on her finger, and then back to her eyes.

"Your kind?"

"Muggle-born's."

He let out a low chuckle, "I still feel the same."

* * *

**December 31st 1999 11:55pm**

Hermione was sobbing, her arms folding across her knees, head bowed, the resurrection stone in the grass next to her. She'd already turned it. Tom Riddle had appeared. He was furious, the same as yesterday, for being brought back across the river Styx and to the land of the living. Hermione couldn't explain why she'd turned it again. Her first attempt at reasoning with him yesterday was a failure. He hadn't raised his voice. He didn't need to. He was cold and emotionless, staring at her with unfeeling eyes.

But that settled Hermione. For once, someone looked at her without all the ridiculous admiration. She didn't need to pretend be some sort of hero when Tom looked at her. She could just be. Hermione thought of Ron back at home, in their bed, and the argument they'd had and buried her face in her arms again.

"You again," He said, "Why can't you just leave me in peace."

"Redemption." Hermione replied, fat wet tears leaving red-hot trails down her cheeks.

Tom cocked his head and turned away from her, "Redemption for you or me?"

Hermione hesitated, lifting her head to look over at him. He stood with his back to her, staring out over the Earth. Hermione thought he might be plotting his reign over the world. He was regal and enchanting in every way. Hermione could understand now why Ginny had been so drawn to him. Even now, even though Hermione was older and knew better, he was still charming. Even when he was insulting her, as he so often had been over these last two days, he was still captivating. It was easy to see how he had captured the minds of so many.

"For both of us."

He turned and looked over his shoulder at Hermione then. She fidgeted nervously under his gaze and a slow smirk grew on his mouth.

"I don't need redemption, my dear."

"No?"

"No. I regret nothing."

Hermione's mouth opened, and then closed, and then opened again, "But you killed."

"Yes. I did."

"That's an evil thing to do."

He came over to her then and knelt in front of her. One lone, long finger trailed down her cheek and Hermione was surprised that she could _feel_ it. Not the contact exactly, but the chill it left and it shocked her because she was under the impression that you could not feel the dead. She contained a shiver as it traveled down her spine. The cold gripped her chin and tilted it upwards. His face was so close to hers and she scrutinised it, her eyes dancing across his lovely, long eyelashes and soft pink mouth.

"Oh Hermione. If that is the case, you are evil too."

* * *

**January 4th 2000 12:31am**

He wasn't speaking now. Neither was she. He sat next to her, the stone lay between them. Hermione was gazing up at the stars attempting to pick out the constellations. Tom's eyes closed. His brow burrowed. He never usually seemed distressed during her visits, but tonight he seemed distant, thoughtful.

"Are you troubled, Tom?"

One dark eye peeked from behind one open lid and then shut again, "Yes."

"So am I."

* * *

**February 14th 2000 10:23pm**

Hermione glanced over at Ron's sleeping form next to her. Their wedding night had hardly been magical. He hadn't even touched her - not that she really wanted him to. The sheets were rising and falling gently against his chest and a small frown marred his face. Aside from that he looked so peaceful. She could almost imagine he was the same boy she'd met at school.

She knew this was a mistake. This whole marriage was a sham. They didn't love each other. Not really. They were comfortable with each other. Comfortable enough to not object when his family started playing match-maker and organising the wedding. Hermione heard Ron talking to Lavender before the wedding. She was crying and begging him not to go through with it and he was trying to calm her. Hermione heard his soothing words and soft coos and knew that he cared for Lavender more than he cared for her.

And then Hermione remembered that Lavender was dead and that Ron was drunk and that he was muttering to thin air.

Hermione wasn't even sure if Ron really loved Lavender. She thought he might just feel guilty at how he had treated her before her death. He didn't speak to Hermione for weeks after the last battle. Hermione assumed it was because of Fred and tried to comfort him but in his sleep he muttered Lavender's name. Their relationship had been short and sweet and simple and their break up had been similar, only slightly less sweet for her. Maybe that was what Ron wanted now, something simple and sweet. Hermione wasn't either of those things.

She could still see the image of Lavender's porcelain body splattered with dirt and blood. It was repulsive really, because even in death, even covered by disgusting things, she had still been beautiful. Ron was sick when he saw her. Hermione pulled him away. They resumed battle.

They should have never gotten married.

* * *

**December 31st 1999 11:58pm**

"It's nearly the new year," Hermione murmured, glancing at the watch strapped around her wrist.

"It would have been my birthday today."

"Oh, happy birthday."

"As if that is really something I wanted to hear from you, but thanks."

Hermione sighed and shook her head. This was hopeless. If she couldn't get Tom Riddle to feel remorse for the things he had done then none of his followers would. Or maybe they would. Maybe Voldemort was the one out of a hundred that would never be sorry, because he believed he was right. With his arrogant grin and emotionless eyes. He'd killed hundreds of people, of course. Who killed hundreds of people, on purpose with seemingly no reason, and felt bad for it? Hitler certainly hadn't felt sorry when he slaughtered millions.

"Say, Hermione, are you going to keep bringing me back here?" He finally murmured, glancing over at the girl next to him.

"Yes. I think so. I believe there is good and bad in everyone. If I may be so bold, Tom, I believe that you were a victim of circumstance. You hated your father, and you projected that hate on all muggle-born's. I'm hoping that, by visiting you, I can prove that there is some good in you - no matter how small."

"Really? You think that you coming here will change my opinion."

"Yes."

"Hermione you are a muggle-born, correct?"

"Yes."

"And you helped kill me, correct?"

Hermione hesitated. Tom narrowed his eyes at her, "Yes."

"So why would my opinion change when a muggle-born was one of the people who helped destroy me."

"Well I was hoping it would show you that muggle-born's aren't weak, not like you made us out to be."

"You may not be weak magically but you are weak emotionally." Hermione opened her mouth to protest but Tom held up one finger to silence her. She obeyed. His lip twitched upwards, "Here you are, sat out here nearly every night, turning your stupid stone, hoping that I will tell you that muggle-born's are worthy. I can't help but wonder why you need my seal of approval. You _killed_ me, but you also come here every night to seek, what, comfort? Redemption? Acceptance? From the man you killed. The man you hated."

Hermione stayed silent.

"There is no good in me Hermione. I have never been _good._ I killed animals in front of children in the orphanage. I killed my grandparents. My father. Your beloved Harry's parents, Remus, Tonks, Moody, Snape, your parents and the list does not end there and somehow you believe there is _good_ in me. You are a fool, Hermione Granger. And if you are as clever as you are made out to be you will stop bringing me back to be your shoulder to cry on."

* * *

**January 4th 2000 7:00am**

The sun was creeping up the sky, slowly peaking over the horizon. The cold was still wrapped around Hermione. She internally begged for warmth. Tom was laying back against the grass, his arms crossed behind his head. It almost looked like he was sleeping. She wondered why he never appeared to her as the Voldemort she faced. Why - in death - had he become this beautiful man? And intelligent too. And controlled. He never gave away any of his emotions - except one. If he wasn't expressionless he was fierce, angry, terrifying. It was both incredible and horrifying to see such a man go from aloof to murderous within a few moments.

But then, maybe he would appear as Voldemort if she used that name when she called him. Unsurprisingly she did not want to test that theory.

"It's morning," She murmured.

"And I'm still here, for some reason."

"You know why."

"This is ridiculous." He muttered.

* * *

**February 16th 2000, 9pm**

"You shouldn't have married him."

That was the first thing that fell from Tom Riddle's lips when he appeared this evening. His eyes went straight to the golden band around her finger that sat neatly above her engagement ring. He rolled his eyes at it and shook his head at her disapprovingly.

"I thought you were supposed to be smart."

Hermione glared at him, "I am smart."

"Clearly not," He murmured, "A smart girl would not have married someone beneath her. A smart girl would not limit herself to being a mere housewife."

"Ron knows I will never be a housewife," She spat and then she stilled, "Hang on... beneath me? But, Ron's a pureblood..."

"Ron Weasley is an idiot."

Silence covered them, thick and heavy. It threatened to suffocate Hermione as her thoughts enveloped her. Was he finally seeing that she was worthy? That a muggle-born could be on the same level, if not _better_, than a pureblood. She was certainly more intelligent than Ron, and more compassionate, and more loyal. This was it, this could be it. All Tom had to say now is that she was worthy. Then she could leave. She could throw the stone off the cliff and leave and know that she, Hermione Granger, Mudblood, was _worthy_.

"Don't get too carried away, pet. You're still filthy."

Hermione's blood burst inside her, "PET?! How _dare_ you call me that! As if I'm some sort of... plaything! I am certainly not your pet. You're just a pathetic orphan with _serious_ daddy issues who couldn't even successfully kill a ONE YEAR OLD. And you think I'M filthy?! After all the things you've done? After everything you put the Wizarding world through? Did you seriously think you were making it a better place? Because you _ruined_ it. You ruined everything. You poor little boy, thinking you're something special. You're nothing but a frea-."

Something in Tom Riddle's harsh glare stopped her. Her mouth snapped shut. The stone felt heavy in her pocket.

"And yet you're the one who keeps bringing me back."

* * *

**February 16th 2000, 9:05pm**

Ron and Harry knew.

They followed Hermione into the night. Ron noticed that she kept sneaking out at night. He'd called Harry and they followed her up the hill and watched as she turned the resurrection stone thrice in hand. Ron nearly fainted when he saw the vision of Tom Riddle appearing. Harry's calm expression fell harsh and cold. They observed. They watched. They waited.

They heard Hermione's frantic, shrill yells and Tom's amused drawl. Ron fumed over the way Tom was looking at his wife. His eyes trailed over her as she exploded, a small quirk lifting the right side of his elegant mouth. One dark eyebrow raised. One tall Slytherin spoke. One Gryffindor went silent.

"And yet you're the one who keeps bringing me back."

Harry and Ron held their breath as Tom advanced on their best friend and pulled her flush against him. Ron's fists clenched by his sides. His body trembled with rage. Harry held him back. They heard Hermione's voice murmur, "Let me go," and then Tom's light chuckle filled the air.

"I wonder why you keep bringing me back."

They held their breath as Voldemort trailed a long finger down Hermione's cheek. His eyes flashed. His lips curled upwards in satisfaction.

"You're mine," He replied.

And they gazed, helpless, as Tom Riddle pressed his lips against Hermione Granger's.

* * *

**January 4th 2000 7:06am**

As Hermione watched the sun rise with the man she had helped murder she realised something disastrous.

She loved him.

It hit her suddenly, right in her stomach, and manifested there. She felt the feeling spread throughout her veins and bleed into her skin. She tried to scratch at it, to rid herself of the disgust she felt, but Tom Riddle leant over suddenly and wrapped his fingers around hers. Her hands stopped trembling and her eyes locked with his. A slow flush crept across her cheeks and Tom gazed at it for a moment as it blossomed upon her face.

She hated herself. She hated herself for not realising that he had crept into her mind. She should have prepared for this factor. Hermione hadn't even considered that she might begin to care for him, especially when he was hardly nice to her, especially when he still thought she was filthy, but she cared. Oh how she cared. She cared that he'd had an awful upbringing and no one had shown him love or compassion or tenderness and that the loss of all those things had turned him bitter.

He dropped her hands then, and stood.

"Do you still feel the same way, about muggle-born's."

"My answer will never change, Hermione. It's morning. Let me go back now."

* * *

**February 17th 2000, 8am**

Ron left that morning. He didn't wake her. He didn't leave a note. He didn't leave any evidence that he had ever resided there. Hermione rose alone and glanced around the room, unsurprised. She shrugged to herself and prepared for work.

* * *

**February 23rd 2000, 2am**

They laid side by side now, their shoulders pressed against each other, the chill running down the entirety of her left side. They never really spoke anymore. Hermione didn't have the words anymore. She didn't ask him about muggle-born's and in turn he didn't insult her. He seemed to like it best when they completely ignored her heritage entirely. She shuddered due to the cold air and felt her eyes droop, the weight of tiredness tugging against them, willing her to rest.

Tom sighed in annoyance beside her and sat up.

"Hermione. I am dead."

Hermione sat up too and moved to kneel next to him, her hand coming up to rest against his cheek. He waited for her to respond and frowned when she simply nodded.

"You are alive."

She nodded again.

"And you're still a mudblood."

"You're only a half-blood. You're filthy too."

She waited for him to shout at her but his lips merely quirked up to form a strange smile. He reached out then and grabbed her face in his hands - _why can I feel you you're dead I'm supposed to be able to feel you why can I touch you why can I feel your hands against my skin why can I feel the chill why why why_ - They sat like that for a moment, caressing the other's skin, memorising every slope and cut and line imprinted on the others' face. Hermione's fingers remained on Tom's cheek, his fingers travelled to her lips.

"You know I can't stay. I don't belong here anymore."

"It's funny, I thought you were afraid of death."

"I was. But now it is where I need to be."

Hermione nodded sullenly and he pressed his lips against hers softly. Tom Riddle didn't do soft. All the times they had kissed it had never been soft. Hermione hated that it was soft this time. It was soft because he was leaving her. He was leaving her to rest while she had to live. It seemed unfair. To be alive suddenly. To belong to someone who not only hated everything she was, but could never be with her. Even alive they would have never been together. They were from two different time periods. The age gap was too large, despite him appearing eighteen in death, she knew he would have been around eighty if still alive.

And he would have tried to kill her, which is never a good thing for a relationship.

The pressure of his lips faded and so did he.

Hermione remained on the hill for a moment more, gazing at the space he once filled. She glanced down at the stone in her hands and studied it briefly, wondering if it would be better to destroy it and not hide it. She pulled out her wand and aimed it at the pebble before choking back a sob. No. She couldn't destroy it. Not now. Not after everything. But she couldn't keep it either.

She walked to the edge of the hill, closed her eyes, and dropped it. She heard it as it rolled down the jagged edges and into the lake below. After hearing the soft _plop_ of it sinking to the bottom of the lake she turned and made her way back home. The journey felt longer this time, and colder, but she also felt content. Hermione hadn't felt peaceful for so long after the war. It was strange that now, after losing the man she loved, that she would feel calm.

As she crawled into her bed she heard the scratching of a quill on to a spare page of parchment next to her bed.

_My Lovely Mudblood._

The stone materialised on her bedside.


End file.
